Alabanza
by Daystar Searcher
Summary: Maybe despair is settling for whatever comfort you can take, or maybe love is finding the perfection in the imperfect.


**Disclaimer: If I owned Criminal Intent, I would not be freaking out so much over trying to find an affordable place to rent next year. Also, fellow Bobby Goren fangirls: please read past the first sentence and to the end of the story before making any final decisions about mercilessly slaughtering me.**

**A.N. Unless my newly purchased complete original cast soundtrack of **_**In The Heights **_**is lying to me, 'alabanza' means "to raise this thing to God's face and to sing, quite literally, praise to this."**

The first time, the sex was terrible.

They'd been inching back together, back to what they used to be—they did used to be something else , right? They did used to be something good?

Alex was almost positive they used to smile at each other.

They'd been so close to where they'd been and then—

xxxxx

"Sorry," he had said when she came to him after the Gage interview. Hands up, palms vertical, ready to ward off a blow. "I can't—right now, I, I can't—"

He turned, head down, walked away.

She watched. Lead in her bones.

Finally too fucking tired to do anything else.

xxxxx

Clunk. Eames' eyes snapped open. Scanned the rows of empty mattresses.

"Sorry, I—I didn't mean to wake you."

She looked up at Bobby from the mattress where she'd bunked out after he left. A stark black silhouette in a room of grays and gray-blues and gray-browns.

"Well, you did."

Even six feet away, the stink of tobacco clung to him.

_Off the wagon again, or are you actually the secret lovechild of Joe the Camel and the Marlboro Man?_

Is what she would have said. Once upon a time.

He looked out the window. "When I was little…I used to think city lights were…were jewels. Emeralds and sapphires and rubies. Diamonds."

"Me too."

And the air hummed with electricity and other terrifying possibilities.

xxxxx

The stench was worse up close, and she could taste it on his lips too. Heavy and ashen and cloying. Death. Their mouths mashing together in clumsy compulsion because this was _life_, and their teeth smashing into each other and they didn't know what the hell they were doing, and it was such an epically stupid thing to be doing, anytime and anywhere but especially right then and right there at the place they both worked for Chrissakes—

Their hands grappled with and gripped at each other's flesh like clay that wouldn't be sculpted, groping through the clothes that wouldn't come off, helpless fingers flicking and twisting and pulling at unyielding buttons, so many many tiny buttons and finally she just unzipped him, tugged her own pants down past her hips and it was still too dark for either of them to see each others' faces—

And she lifted up the covers and he tried to slip in but his foot got caught in the blanket and he almost tumbled off the bed so they threw the blankets back and now the stupidity was reaching apocalyptic levels but neither of them said anything because this was all a dance, all the steps had been planned out beforehand and here they were and this was life and this was what they were doing and this was what they needed and—

This.

_This._

And he was too big and she was too small and it kind of, no, it really hurt when he pushed in, _goddamnit,_ because she wasn't near wet enough and it was just so fucking ridiculous how much of strangers their bodies were to each other, bumping and slipping and scraping and trying to find purchase, tangled limbs jolting against each other and all his weight pressing down onto her—

And he came too soon, sobbing, and she didn't come at all.

"Sorry," he grunted, ducking his head. And he withdrew, fingers moving south, fumbling for entry—

But then there were voices, and he sat up so fast he smacked his head on the top bunk, and he swore, and he jumped up with his cock still hanging out and oh fuck, they hadn't even had a condom, had they, but no time to think about that now because he had to pull up his pants and Eames had to pull up the blanket and he had to dive, practically, into another bunk.

The voices passed them by.

"Sorry," Bobby's voice whispered, and she knew it wasn't just for this.

"It's okay. Next time." Eames slipped from her bunk to sit on the edge of his. She ran her fingers through his hair and it made a whistling rustle. "You need a haircut."

His eyes were closed, and tears leaked out the edges. His whole body shook, and he wrapped both his hands around her free one.

She stayed. So did he.

And the sun stole up over the edge of the windowsill and spilled slowly into the room, painting the cold-colored walls with light, sweeping and soft and merciful.

xxxxx

"Eames."

"Yeah?"

"You…I mean, you…_alabanza._"


End file.
